“He has recipes I want. For Pennyfoil’s. I’m not giving up.” Rosalind narrowed her eyes. “Who told you Torrington took liberties?”
“I may have overheard my mother having tea with yours. And I doubt you let him ruin you for that stupid tart you’re always going on about.”
“Eavesdropping is a terrible habit,” Rosalind snapped. “And the tart isn’t stupid. It was revered by a king.”
Theodosia rolled her eyes. “I do wish Romy were here.”
“As do I.” Rosalind stood and fluffed out her ice blue skirts, watching as the brilliants sewn into the skirt reflected the light streaming in through the small stained-glass window. Best to get this over with as soon as possible. She wanted to make macarons later.
* * *
Bram never thoughtto find himself before a vicar again. He’d assumed if he and a vicar happened to be in close proximity, it would be because Bram was being put in the ground.
A rustle of skirts came from the back of the church. Rosalind, stunning in an ice-blue gown covered with brilliants, held the arm of the Duke of Averell. There was a slight tremble to her plump form as she saw Bram. The panic he’d sensed in her the night he’d dined at Lady Richardson’s still hovered over her shoulders, making her wobble slightly as she took a step forward.
The duke whispered something in her ear.
Rosalind straightened and lifted her chin, gazing at Bram once more but this time with determination.
Ah, there’s my brazen baker.
Bram didn’t expect Rosalind to come running down the aisle to him, but neither did he want her fearful and cowed. The only sign of her continued distress was the slight shake of the bouquet she held.
Averell brought her to stand before the vicar, giving her a not-so-gentle nudge in Bram’s direction as he released her.
Rosalind scorched the duke with one scathing look. Whatever he’d whispered to push her down the aisle had worn off.
A sound of amusement came from Lady Phaedra who sat next to Lord and Lady Haven, Miss Nelson on the opposite side. Haven was watching Bram with a bemused look, probably hoping for an ally. He and the duke detested each other.
The weeping of Lady Richardson grew louder. The dowager duchess quietly admonished her and took her hand. The Duchess of Averell sat on the other side, gently patting Lady Richardson’s arm. Rosalind’s mother had begun leaking tears the moment she’d put her slippered foot inside the church. The intensity of her weeping had slowly increased in volume and intensity until now, it echoed throughout the entire church.
Averell took the seat next to his wife and looked at his family with resignation. A family populated by opinionated, slightly eccentric women who seemed to ignore the duke’s guidance. Averell had Bram’s sympathies.
Margarite, Hertfort, and their four girls all sat together. His nieces were all dressed in varying hues of pink and adorned with a flurry of ribbons. Cora, the youngest, impishly waved at him.
Bram winked and waved back before facing the vicar once more.
Rosalind stood next to him, her luscious mouth pursed into a tiny rosette. Bram took her hand, lacing their fingers together so that she could not pull away.
She glanced up at him, worry shadowing her eyes. Her fingers were chilled even through her gloves. The fear which clung to her wasn’t of Bram, which he knew because she was holding on to his hand for dear life. But of something much more profound.
Bram raised her fingers to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles, ignoring the disapproval of the vicar. “Everything will be all right,” he reassured her. “I promise, Rosalind.”
The vicar cleared his throat. “My lord.”
Bram answered automatically. He knew exactly what to recite back to the vicar. It was his third wedding, after all.
But this was the only time when he’d truly meant the words.
18
Rosalind sat back in the carriage, looking out the window at the house she’d called home for as long as she remembered. It wasn’t Lord Richardson’s London house. His nephew had taken possession of her father’s home a week after Lord Richardson had died. This property was one Cousin Marcus, in his endless generosity, had given his dear cousin Winifred along with a large allowance. No relative of the Duke of Averell would be allowed to devolve into genteel poverty or be tossed into the streets. The neighborhood was even more fashionable than the one the current Viscount Richardson resided in.
In any case, Rosalind would never live here again.
Hands clasped in her lap, fingers twisted in agitation. Unknown to her mother or anyone else, especially the traitorous Jacobson, Rosalind had snuck out yesterday to visit Pennyfoil. Surprised at the sight of her, Pennyfoil had immediately stopped what he was doing and joined her for a cup of tea. The work area bustled with activity around her. Cakes were being made. The lemon torte. The ginger spice cake with pears she’d perfected only a short time ago. When she apologized for not bringing over any additional recipes, Pennyfoil had waved away her concerns.
“I don’t think we need them.”
